


Seven Minutes Later

by FabulaRasa



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 16:01:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19380028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FabulaRasa/pseuds/FabulaRasa
Summary: This is a sequel to one of the first Hal/Bruce stories I ever wrote, about five years ago, calledSeven Minutes in Heaven, or Why Hal Jordan Really Needs A Collared Uniform. I've always wondered what happened later that night, and this is one possibility. More necking, with a side of mutual vulnerability.





	Seven Minutes Later

Hal pressed his hand on the pad beside the door to Batman’s quarters, and to his surprise it whooshed open for him immediately. He stepped inside, a bit hesitantly. 

“There you are,” Bruce said, but there was no bite behind it, the way he might say _there you are_ when Hal showed up to a League meeting fifteen minutes late. It was more like the way you would greet a friend you had been waiting for. Bruce was pouring two glasses of red wine. Hal wanted to turn around and check he had walked through the right door.

“Some wine?” Bruce said, extending a glass. “It was a hell of a mission, God knows we deserve it.”

“Sure,” Hal said, and he took the glass. Bruce’s quarters were nice – nicer than he had expected. Nicer than his own, but that wouldn’t be a hard bar to raise. Hal had never done anything to make them more comfortable, treating it like a place to crash when he was too tired to get back to Earth. But this looked like a place Bruce spent some time in. Or maybe not. Maybe he had a team of decorators who worked to make every space he inhabited look just so – sofas upholstered in butter-soft leather, muted lighting, a bar with sleek stools. Somehow it was a little easier to look at his wineglass than at Bruce, who was leaning on a stool and looking. . . gorgeous, actually. Showered, wearing a turtleneck, and smelling delicious. Hal was definitely wishing he had changed. 

“I’m assuming from what you said in the meeting that you’re going to have to head straight to Oa and report on the Thro-vanian attack,” Bruce was saying. 

“Yeah. Well, maybe not _straight_ there. I sent the Corps a quick report, but they’re gonna want more when I can get it to them.”

“They’re going to want the Javelin’s flight recording,” Bruce said shrewdly.

“It would be helpful, yeah. That gonna be some kind of problem?”

“No. I think the League should be in the habit of sharing as much information as possible with the Corps. It would be nice, however, if that were a two-way street.”

“Yeah, well, they’re not likely to go for that. What, do you somehow think I’m not advocating for the League to get intel, every chance I get?”

“No. Did I sound accusatory?”

“No, I just—the Corps busts my ass for spending time working with the League, and the League busts my ass for the time I spend with the Corps, and somewhere in there I’m supposed to be working an actual job back on Earth, so yeah, sometimes I would like ‘get off my ass I’m doing the best I can’ printed on a T shirt.”

Bruce smiled, and drank some more of his wine. “I am always aware how many directions you are pulled in, Lantern. I don’t know of many men – well, any, to be frank – who could do what you do.”

“Okay, now you’re just freaking me out,” Hal said. “Unless I had a brain hemorrhage, that was a compliment you just gave me. And wine? What gives? Because if you’re somehow worried I’m hard to get, I think we both know I’m not.”

Bruce set his wine down. “This,” he said, “is an apology.”

“Oh,” Hal said. 

It was funny what that felt like, in his middle. Before the League meeting, when he had been busy trashing the cargo bay and flipping the fuck out, he had thought having feelings for Bruce was the worst thing that could possibly happen to him. And then during the meeting, when he was trying to be all focused and professional, he had glanced over at the impassive wall of Bruce, sitting across from him, and remembered what those arms had felt like, wrapped tight around him. What Bruce’s body had felt like against his. Bruce’s mouth, and its quiet gasp next to his jaw. Finding out that in fact he wasn’t going to be feeling that again, that after all it wasn’t an issue. . . it was just funny, what it felt like. Like a hard rock in the center of his stomach.

“Sure,” Hal said lightly, looking only at his wineglass. “No harm no foul.”

“I don’t make a habit of doing that,” Bruce said. “And I think that you might have—”

“Seriously Bruce, I don’t need an essay. Like I said, no harm no foul and let’s leave it at that, all right?” He tried to make his voice normal, but even he could hear how tight it sounded. Fuck. He drained his wine glass and set it down. “Thanks for the drink.”

“Hal,” Bruce said, and put his hand on Hal’s. “Please, that’s not what I mean. But I threw you against a wall and shoved my tongue down your throat, and no, that is not my usual, and yes, I think that deserves an apology. I would like a chance to do better, is what I mean.”

“Oh,” Hal said again. Maybe he shouldn’t have slammed that wine on an empty stomach. Bruce’s hand was still on top of his. “Well,” he tried, “okay, but what you have to ask yourself is, did I at any point in the proceedings object to the all the wall-throwing and tongue-shoving? Because I think we would have to say no.”

“You probably should have.”

“There’s a lot I should do that I don’t.” 

Bruce’s eyes were steady on his. That hand was still resting on top of his, and Hal glanced at it. Bruce lifted Hal’s hand to his face, studied it. He kissed the back of Hal’s hand, gently. Then he turned the hand over, slowly, and pressed his mouth to the center of Hal’s palm. Hal’s heart started a triphammer beat, and he wondered if Bruce could feel the leap of it, in his pulse. Whatever Bruce was doing to his hand was going straight to his cock. 

“So,” Hal said, swallowing around the dryness of his throat, “for the sake of argument. Assuming I accept your apology, that is. What exactly would you have done different, if you could?”

Bruce set his hand down. Those eyes had not left his face. He rose and placed himself in between Hal’s legs, as he sat there at the bar. Took his hand and ran it down Hal’s jaw, let both his hands cradle Hal’s face. He wondered if Bruce could feel the pulse in his jaw. Bruce leaned in to brush his lips against Hal’s, but stopped, pulled back.

“May I?” he whispered, his eyes grave.

Hal nodded, and Bruce’s lips touched Hal’s, infinitely gentle. It was. . . there was a whole world in those lips, in the things they were doing to Hal. He had told Bruce he didn’t need an essay, when he thought Bruce was trying to get rid of him, but this was the actual essay. It was complicated, and how the fuck did that work, how did anyone kiss _complicated?_ It was like before, like in the Javelin, where everything had fallen away and the entire multiverse had narrowed to Bruce’s mouth, Bruce’s hands, Bruce’s breath against his. It was like before, but at the same time it wasn’t like before. He had never been kissed quite like this, like he was this. . . this infinitely precious thing. It knocked the wind right out from him, to be kissed like that. Bruce’s hand was still on the back of his neck, his thumb softly stroking. Hal let himself sink into it, felt himself go a little boneless.

Bruce’s hand slid down, resting gently on his shirtfront. The hand slid around his waist, then stopped. Bruce pulled back slightly, waited until he had Hal’s eyes. Holy fuck. Everything he was doing, he was waiting for. . . “All right?” he whispered, and Hal nodded again.

Consent. He was waiting for consent. Everything he was doing, he was checking in with Hal first. The thought of it collapsed Hal’s lungs, and he kissed Bruce back, trying to kiss him the same way, with the same kind of tenderness and hunger. “Bruce,” he murmured. He let his hands tangle in Bruce’s hair the same way, touched and kissed and caressed like Bruce did. 

On the other hand. . . . lightning fast he rose and pushed Bruce, hard, until his back hit the wall. Hal pressed his body against Bruce’s – God, he really did smell amazing – and kept him pinned there, hands gripping Bruce’s wrists. Bruce smirked at him. “Fair’s fair,” he said softly.

“Yeah. Plus, this is a little more on-brand for us, I think.” 

He kissed Bruce, and the kiss was like it had been on the Javelin, hungry and desperate and shaking with want. Bruce met him kiss for kiss, and Hal’s head was spinning with it – he wasn’t paying attention to where he was or what they were doing, and it felt like everything melting away again. How did Bruce do that, how did he make everything else in the universe just evaporate like that?

As they kissed, Bruce was edging them slightly toward the open doorway to his right. Inside that doorway was a bed. Bruce’s bed. Hal lifted his mouth from Bruce’s, paused. Somehow he had forgotten about this part? Or had he not thought this through? Of course that was the logical next step, of course that was what they were doing. That was the whole point of this, right? Too late he realized he was just standing there – had been standing there stupidly for a bit.

“Hal,” Bruce whispered. And then he tugged a hand free from where Hal still had him pinned against the wall, and slammed the hand on the doorpad. It whooshed the door to his bedroom shut.

“That doesn’t have to be for tonight,” he said, and Hal’s face burned and prickled, that Bruce had read his hesitation there, or more likely felt the slight stiffening in his whole body. And why? Really, and for fuck’s sake, why. They had already dry humped like horny teenagers, what really was the big deal? Wasn’t that what they were here for? Of all the goddamn stupid things. 

“It’s fine, I didn’t mean—it’s fine,” Hal said, more harshly than he meant to, but Bruce held still, just watching him. Fuck. Fuck. 

“Hal please look at me.” It was the voice that was killing him here. Bruce’s voice, that gentle voice, was breaking all the rules. This was supposed to be part two of a mindless fuck, it was supposed to. . . but no, that wasn’t right. There had been this thing between them, on the Javelin, this feeling like his skin had hurt to step away from Bruce. Whatever that had been about, it hadn’t been about mindless fucking. So what the fuck had he come here for tonight?

What the fuck was he doing here?

He released Bruce’s hands and stepped away. “What did that mean,” he said. He wished his voice would stop doing that harsh thing. It made him sound angry, and he wasn’t.

Was he?

“What did what mean,” Bruce said quietly.

“The—when you said that doesn’t have to be for tonight. What did that—what the fuck did that mean?”

Bruce was sliding his hands in his pockets, but he was still leaning against the wall. “Well what do you think it meant, Hal? There’s nothing wrong with your hearing.”

And Hal gave a short laugh at that, because actually. But Bruce wouldn’t know why that was funny. “There is,” he said. “Funny story. I faked my hearing test. There was—anyway. Yeah, my hearing test is a fake, I never should have been Air Force actually. Bet you didn’t know that one.”

“I didn’t,” Bruce said. “What’s wrong with your hearing?”

“It was—I was a kid. Doesn’t matter. Never mind. I shouldn’t have. . . never mind.”

Bruce was still watching him. Hal was watching the floor. “What I meant was,” Bruce said, after a pause of long minutes, “that I would very much like for what we’re doing here to continue, beyond just tonight. But since the mere suggestion of that appears to have caused your brain to break, I’m guessing that was not the deal, from your point of view.”

Hal’s chest felt like it was winched tight. Like someone was winding it tighter, in fact. It felt like before, on the Javelin, when he had gripped the bathroom sink and shook with it, not understanding what was happening to him. What the fuck was even wrong with him? It had felt like shit when he had thought Bruce was sorry the whole thing had happened, when he had thought Bruce didn’t want this. And now when it turned out Bruce _did_ want this, did want him, in fact, then he felt. . . 

Fuck.

Mainly he just wanted Bruce to stop watching him like that.

“I took a hit, in football,” Hal said. “On the side of my head, the eardrum. When I was like twelve. You know, the sort of thing they don’t let kids do now. Now you gotta play flag football until you’re like fifteen, and even then you gotta wear pads that weight fifty pounds and stuff cotton balls inside the helmets and shit. My nephew wanted to play and my sister-in-law flipped right the fuck out. Not like it was back in the day. So that’s why my. . . it was just a stupid football hit. I dunno, it never seemed like a big deal. But yeah, turns out my hearing is just off enough.”

He was jabbering, he knew. Bruce just kept watching him. “Fascinating,” he said flatly. 

“Fuck you.”

“Well apparently not.”

“You’re a mouthy little bitch when you’re not gonna get laid, aren’t you?”

“And you’re a coward.”

“Wow Bruce, that’s some kind of a record even for you. No really, sincerely, that was very moving there, your whole ‘oh I just respect you so much, aren’t you just the specialest thing ever’ little act a few minutes ago. You are such a fucking liar. How is it that you don’t just get exhausted with your own bullshit? What the fuck ever,” he said, grabbing up his jacket. “Thanks for the wine, asshole. Be sure and don’t forget to fuck yourself, first chance you get.”

And he didn’t even look behind him, as he stalked out the door and let it slam shut behind him.

* * *

Even if he zeta’ed directly down to Earth, it would still take forever to get to his apartment, and he was exhausted. “Fuck it,” he muttered, and just headed to his quarters on the Watchtower, which was stupid, because he wanted to shower, and only once he was standing in the shower did he realize he had nothing in there – no soap, no shampoo, fucking nothing. Because he only ever used the showers in the locker rooms below, not up here, because he was never really here anyway. So now he was just wet, and pissed. 

He dried off and fell in the bed, and figured he would sleep for a while and then head home. But he couldn’t sleep. His head was still thrumming with everything that had happened today, and his chest was still tight with it.

Fucking Bruce Wayne. Every time he thought that guy had topped the bar of world’s biggest fucking asshole, he blew the roof right off and started over. Jesus Christ. 

He shut his eyes and tried desperately to sleep. He heard the pulse of his phone and squinted at it. Ollie. For fuck’s sake.

 _Hey so um just wondering how your night’s been going. . ._ read the text. And then there was a string of winkie-face emojis. Like, seventeen of them. Hal tossed the phone on the floor.

On second thought, he should text Ollie back. _It was great_ , he could say. _Let me tell you, it was the best. Bruce is a real sweetheart._

He could feel Bruce’s mouth on his, Bruce’s hands on him. The way he had kissed him, the things he had made him believe. His lacerating voice. _What do you think it meant? Fascinating. Well apparently not. Coward. Coward. Coward._

Hal kicked back the blanket and paced the room. He fucking dared. He fucking dared throw that word at him. How many times had Hal saved his ass, how many times had Hal proven—it didn’t matter, because there would never be enough proof for Bruce Wayne, Bruce would never look at him and see anything more than a fuck-up, never see him with anything other than contempt, and he had pretended to think something else only when he thought he could fuck Hal. And Hal had thought all along that the asshole was an asshole, sure, but a more or less decent human being underneath all that, but no, turned out you peeled back the layers of asshole and what do you know, there was just more asshole underneath. He would head back to Oa, request assignment somewhere else, go somewhere he would never have to fucking see Bruce Wayne’s fucking face again. 

He had ended up in front of the window, staring into the spangled blackness of space, and the thick curved surface of the window just threw his own reflection back at him. _You’re such a fucking liar_ , he had said to Bruce. But Bruce wasn’t the liar, was he?

He saw Bruce’s hand quickly cover the doorpad, closing off the bedroom. _That doesn’t have to be for tonight,_ he had said, the second he had sensed Hal’s discomfort. _Hal please look at me,_ he had said, and Hal heard his voice, heard it exactly as Bruce had spoken it, and he couldn’t—couldn’t make that fit with the asshole he needed him to be, couldn’t make any of it fit.

He sank to his bed, clutching at his head. Fuck. Fuck fuck fucking hell. 

The phone was at his feet. Ollie’s text still visible. Hal reached for the phone. _I think I might have fucked up_ , he wrote. He stared at his text, hit send.

 _Shit man I’m sorry. You wanna talk about it?_ came the immediate answer. 

_Yeah_ , he said.

_Come on over then. Di’s out of town, I’m awake anyway._

Not many people would send that text to you at two in the morning, after you had shoved them against a wall earlier that night. Oliver was a good friend, better than he deserved. He could go to Ollie’s, he knew he could, and Ollie would crack open some beers with him and listen to him bitch and probably play video games with him until dawn. A good friend, and a good man. Hal was probably neither of those things, which was why he valued that in someone else. 

_I should talk about it,_ he wrote back. _But maybe you are not the person I need to be doing the talking to. Thanx for the offer man._

And he clicked off the phone and reached for his clothes.

* * *

The door, of course, did not slide open when he pressed his hand on it this time. No mystery there. He had to resort to banging on it, and only after he’d been standing there for about five minutes pounding on the door did it start to occur to him that of course, Bruce wasn’t there. He had zeta’ed back to Earth, and Hal was going to have to hunt him down – or more likely, wouldn’t find him anywhere, and it might be weeks or even months before he saw him again, and then Hal would say something stiff and awkward, and Bruce would barely make eye contact with him, and the whole clusterfuck of the last twelve hours would be like it had never even happened, and the only thing worse than the clusterfuck was pretending it hadn’t existed at all. He had just raised his fist to beat on the door, louder this time, when it whooshed open. 

Bruce was standing there in a tee shirt and sweats, his eyes bleary. “Lantern,” he said hoarsely. “What’s wrong?”

“A lot,” he said. “Mostly me. Fuck. I’m—you were sleeping.”

Bruce wiped at his face. He was leaning on the doorframe, and he looked like Hal had just wrenched him out of a sound sleep. This was really not going at all like he had planned. Had he planned? Oh wait, maybe that was the problem with his plan – he hadn’t had one. “Can I come in?” he said.

Bruce sighed and stood aside, which was as good as he was going to get, probably. Bruce looked dead on his feet, but Hal felt alive and awake, like he no longer needed sleep. He had that sort of flash-like clarity that coke could give you sometimes, where you saw everything explosion-bright, but in two-second bursts. He could see himself that way right now.

“So in the military,” Hal said, talking fast. “There are things you can do, and things you can’t do. I don’t just mean the people in the military, I mean their families too, because that’s in the military too, you better fucking believe that every first-grader in a military family knows what you can say and what you can’t, and who you can say it in front of, and what things are allowed and what aren’t. There are things you can do, and things you can’t do, is what I mean.”

“Hal, whatever you’re—”

“Please let me finish. Please. And yeah, being. . . gay, or whatever, is definitely one of the things you can’t do, that is for sure not allowed, but you also can’t talk to anyone about actual shit happening to your family, and you can’t go to a base doctor if it means they might end up knowing things about your family that they shouldn’t, or that might get your family in trouble, that you can for sure not do.”

Bruce was staring at him, but he wasn’t interrupting, and he didn’t look asleep any more. Hal swallowed. “I just, I got so fucking mad,” Hal said. “You said that, about how not everything had to be tonight, which meant—I just got so fucking mad, because it was something I didn’t know how to do, all right? I don’t know how to do any of that. I’ve never—I mean, actually, yeah, the bed thing flipped me right the fuck out too because I don’t in fact know how to do that part either, and you do, you know how to do and say all these things, and you just do not fucking get how much of that is _not fucking allowed_ and that pisses me off, all right, you piss me off.”

He had said it all in a giant rush, and he knew it was incoherent. Only Bruce was looking at him like he had understood all of it. Those eyes were awake now, that was for damn sure. 

“Okay,” he said. 

“Okay?”

“Yes, Hal, okay. I appreciate all this, but it’s not necessary. It’s not as though your emotional processes were all that difficult to read.”

“Yeah? Well how about you read this emotional process, asshole. When somebody is honest with you, here’s a shocking suggestion, how about you behave like a decent human being? I realize you have zero fucking idea what that looks like, but you’re rich, you can probably afford to buy a book with maybe a picture of a human being in it. Or better yet, buy yourself some fucking medication.”

“It stopped working.”

Hal stared at him. “It—what stopped working?”

“My meds. I’m on quite a lot, and. . . well. When you take meds for long periods of time, sometimes they just stop working, for not much reason at all. So I had to stop taking them, and I’m transitioning to different meds right now, and that transition is. . . not going well. Let’s just say my impulse control is not what it ought to be, as I think the last twelve hours have demonstrated.”

“Shit,” Hal said. 

“Yep.”

“Is that. . . is that why you kissed me?”

He shrugged. Hal wondered if that was why he looked so tired. “Probably. I don’t know. I kissed you because I wanted to. Does it matter?”

“What. . . what are the meds for?”

“Bipolar disorder. No need to look surprised.”

“Yeah, it’s not the most shocking diagnosis I’ve ever heard. You gonna be okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” he said. He was staring fixedly at some point on the floor about twenty feet away. “Good night, Lantern.”

And in some sane, well-ordered universe, Hal said _well, good night Bats, get some rest,_ and he walked out the door. Maybe he even said _listen, sorry about banging on your door like a maniac_. Or maybe he got mad. Maybe he said something like, _next time you go off your meds how about you try not to screw with me, you narcissistic nutjob._

Any of those were reasonable responses. Any of those made sense. What didn’t make sense was what he actually did, because maybe Bruce wasn’t the only one struggling with some impulse control issues. He crossed to Bruce and reached a hand to his face, turned that face and those razor-sharp eyes to him. He looked so tired. God, he looked tired. He wrung Hal’s heart just to look at him. “Hey,” he said. “It’s okay.”

And he leaned to brush a kiss on Bruce’s mouth. Bruce turned away, but just a fraction. “Don’t you dare pity me,” he said hoarsely.

“Yeah? What if I wanted to do something worse than that?”

And he nudged at Bruce’s mouth with his, until that mouth opened to his, and Hal was kissing him, but gently, feeling his way. He felt the moment when Bruce gave in, when he let Hal’s hands slide around his broad back, pull him closer. And the moment when Bruce’s head tipped back, when he began kissing Hal back like Hal was kissing him. 

“Hey,” Hal whispered. “Would getting off help?”

Bruce’s breath in his ear was warm, his voice wicked. “Think I can convince you it’s medically necessary?” 

Hal laughed softly and seized Bruce’s mouth in his, and he knew he wouldn’t stop kissing him this time until he had given them what they both wanted so bad, and maybe he wouldn’t stop kissing him even then. Maybe he wouldn’t stop, not ever.

* * *

They did end up falling into Bruce’s bed, hands and mouths still frantic and hungry on each other. Pulling away from Bruce’s mouth long enough to tug his shirt off proved a challenge. “Clothes can stay on, if you’d rather,” Bruce whispered to him, and Hal laughed.

“Fuck no, I want to see you, come on baby.”

“You’ve seen me naked.”

“Not like this,” Hal said, rubbing his palm over the hard jut of cock he could feel through Bruce’s sweatpants. Bruce pushed into his hand, groaned. It was such a rush to feel Bruce react like that, to feel Bruce grinding into his hand, that he had a hard time stopping. Bruce had to grab at his wrist to make him stop, because he was too close to coming, and Hal tucked it away for future reference – one day soon he was going to have Bruce in nothing but sweatpants, and rub him off that way, until Bruce came just like that, soaking his sweats and Hal’s hand.

But this time they did manage to struggle out of their clothes, though that was about as far as they got. It was a grind only a little better than what they’d managed on the Javelin, meaning that this time their clothes were off and they were horizontal, but everything else was the same. Bruce got him pinned and rode him, pressing on his cock until Hal was gasping at it, pushing up against that incredible body. He wanted it to last, needed it to last, but he couldn’t, it was so good. He dug his fingers into that glorious ass – and Jesus Christ Almighty, Bruce’s ass – and pressed that ass down, rubbing Bruce’s cock on his, and it shouldn’t have been anything like near enough friction to get him off, but he almost choked, he was gasping so hard. 

“Fuck I’m gonna cum,” he rasped, and the grind of Bruce’s hips into his just got faster, and Hal shook with it. He didn’t mean to groan quite that loud, but then Bruce was making this sound – these soft grunts right in his ear, and he knew Bruce was coming too, he could feel it. Could feel the hot splash of it against his skin. 

And like before, on the Javelin, they kept kissing, and couldn’t stop. Just to breathe Bruce’s air, just to press against his skin. Hal wanted to sob with it. Bruce’s forehead was bent against his, Bruce’s breath was as loud as if he’d run an eight-minute mile. 

“Fuck that felt so good,” Hal managed, his voice broken, and Bruce kissed him again, tongue scouring his mouth. 

“Promise me,” Bruce husked. “Promise me next time you’ll cum in my mouth.”

Hal groaned and pressed his cock up against Bruce’s warm sticky skin. “I promise, fuck yes I promise,” he said. Bruce was kissing down his neck, his collarbone, back up to his jaw. Hal grabbed at an edge of sheet and tried clumsily to wipe them. But all he wanted to do was wrap his arms around Bruce and breathe with him, and that was what they settled into – just the breathing. He knew his arms were probably tighter on Bruce than was comfortable, but Bruce was holding him that tight too, so maybe it didn’t matter. 

Neither of them slept afterward, even though he knew Bruce had to be beyond exhausted at this point. They just lay there tangled up, and Bruce eventually pulled the sheets up around them, and Hal felt a bit of prickle on Bruce’s skin from the cold, and he wrapped him tighter, kissed his skin to warm him. But mainly they just watched each other. 

“I lied about the football,” Hal said eventually, when it had to be getting toward dawn. “That’s not what happened.”

“The on-base doctor,” Bruce said.

“Yeah. He used to beat the shit out of me, and one night he went too far. Burst my eardrum. There was a shit ton of blood. Doctors would mean that somebody would know, and he might get in trouble. So no doctors.”

“He,” Bruce said, and Hal was silent at that, because for some reason his throat choked around the words _my father_ , but he couldn’t think what else to call him. And hated that he was _he_ , the only he in his life. Fuck him forever. 

“I used to think it was my fault,” Hal said. “That he died. Because I wished it so hard. Didn’t even know I was wishing it, truth is. Not until I watched his plane explode in a million fiery bits in the sky did I think oh yeah, that was what I was hoping for. And then I felt like I had made it happen, from wishing it so hard.”

Bruce had started stroking his head, just a long slow stroke of his hair from his forehead to the back of his head. A ghost of a touch. “If you had,” Bruce murmured, “it would have been what he deserved.” 

He didn’t say anything to that, not because he couldn’t think of what to say, but because he could think of too much. And he didn’t want Martin Jordan anywhere near this bed. Bruce was back to kissing him now, but his mouth was sliding to the side of Hal’s face, and he was kissing his right ear, bathing it with his tongue, nuzzling at it. 

“This side,” he said, and Hal nodded. 

“Yeah.”

“You cock your head to the other side all the time,” Bruce said. “I noticed it from the first. I thought you did it because you knew it was your best angle.”

“To be fair, it is a really good angle.” 

“You are annoyingly correct.”

He gave a small laugh, and the quirk of Bruce’s lip echoed it. He thought of what Bruce had said to him: _don’t you dare pity me._ And he had said, _what if I wanted to do something worse._ Their hands were tangled together, and he scooted a little closer. Bruce’s eyes were drifting shut, though Hal saw him struggle to keep them open. 

“Go to sleep,” Hal whispered. “Want me to go so you can get some rest?”

For answer he was pulled closer, and he let his head fall onto Bruce’s chest. He lay there feeling the rise and fall of his breathing even out, as Bruce slipped into sleep. On the little shelf above the bed he heard Bruce’s phone buzz. Bruce wasn’t answering it. Tentatively Hal raised his head. Bruce was definitely asleep. Hal lifted a careful hand to the phone and glanced at it. 

It was a text from Clark.

 _Just checking in,_ it read. _Hoping things went ok? Or better? So usually when I don’t hear from you it’s because things are either unbelievably shitty or unbelievably the opposite. Here’s hoping it’s the second one???_

Hal grinned. The phone was plucked out of his fingers. “Snoop,” Bruce growled, tossing the phone overboard, and Hal laughed. He settled back onto Bruce’s chest. He didn’t think he was going to sleep. 

“This will probably get easier,” Hal whispered.

“Liar,” came the grunt of Bruce’s sleepy voice.


End file.
